The Laundry Room
by Miranda River
Summary: Written for the TARDIS ficathon over on tumblr.


This is my first fic in longer than I care to admit, so hopefully I can still write. This was born out of the TARDIS ficathon over on Tumblr, and now that I find myself with a lot of time on my hands, I thought it would be a good way to get back into the writing game. So, hopefully you guys like it. It was requested by writtenbymartha and the prompt was the TARDIS laundry room.

Rose loved the laundry room.

Mind, she hated doing laundry. She hated remembering which shirts should be hung from the clothes line, lest they shrink, and which could go in the dryer. She always lost socks, and wasn't ever sure if it was okay to put her lacy knickers in with the rest of the wash. When the estate's laundry room broke and no one ever bothered to fix it, the chore of laundry got even worse when she had to trek four blocks to have an old bloke leer at her while she awkwardly waited for her wash to be done at the laundromat that charged too much.

But she loved the laundry room.

She could hide there, and it became an even better hiding place once the washer broke. If she and her mum had a row about something, she could escape there and wait for them both to calm down. She would listen to music, or take a magazine, giving her time to think. The estate was always so noisy, with the family with children that lived the level below Rose, who screamed bloody murder at everything, and the couple who lived upstairs, who were fond of fighting. The laundry room was nice because it was on the ground floor, all the sounds muffled, particularly with the help of headphones. Rose could have conversations there—she could talk to Shireen about boys there, without her mum constantly asking questions. When she was dating Jimmy Stone, she could call him there without hear that her mum would barge in, demanding that she get off the phone RIGHT NOW. There were even times that she and Mickey went there to fool around, though he complained that it was cold and it wasn't comfortable there, not like his bedroom. Rose had a feeling it was because he couldn't turn on the television once they were through. Once, when she and Shireen were sixteen, Shireen had gotten a hold of some pot from her older brother, and they went down the laundry room to smoke it, because they were afraid of getting caught. Rose didn't much care for it though, she didn't see tangerine trees or anything, nor did she feel any different. It was there that Rose went to cry her heart out when Jimmy cheated on her with Marie, and it was there that she went to get away from the daily grind of her life.

The laundry room had lots of memories.

She discovered by accident that the TARDIS had a laundry room. She had always just waited until she had nothing to wear and asked the Doctor to take her back to her mum's so she could drop off her laundry and visit her mum a bit. He would gripe, and in retrospect she wondered why he didn't mention that the TARDIS had a laundry room. She suspected that he understood her need to visit home every once in a while. She found the laundry room of the TARDIS after the Doctor changed. She knew he was the same man, same memories and same sad eyes, but she had spent many nights wandering about, hoping for peace and instead getting dreams filled with gold glitter dust and cheesy lines before amazing kisses. Perhaps the TARDIS knew that she needed a place to think, a place she recognized, and gave it to her. She felt more connected to the TARDIS after the Doctor's regeneration, though she was unsure why. Nevertheless, she was grateful. She needed time, and space, to think and Rose was not sure the Doctor would completely understand that.

There was a washer and dryer just like the ones at the estate, though these worked. There was even a clothes line and the kind of detergent and fabric softener she liked. To the casual observer, it wouldn't look like much with its concrete floors and brick walls painted white, but to Rose it was one of her favorite rooms in the TARDIS. She could perch on top of the dryer, or lean against it like she did at home. Sometimes there was tea, if she needed it, or a magazine Rose could have sworn had been lying on the floor of her room. There was a steady hum, like the rumbling of the dryer, but more soothing, like the sounds of a mother lulling her baby to sleep. Once Rose had a particularly trying day with the Doctor, who seemed more manic than usual, and she found a bottle of wine and a glass near the fabric softener.

It was the thought of escaping to the laundry room that kept her from losing her composure when the Doctor brought them back from the spaceship of lunatic clockwork men obsessed with a courtesan. While she felt sorry for the Doctor for experiencing loss yet again, part of her was furious with him for leaving them, for almost letting her and Mickey get killed while he sipped banana daiquiris and (probably) made out with Madame Courtesan.

Oh, that wasn't nice, Rose thought. She had a name, she was a person and even if she was a courtesan, she shouldn't be reduced to her body. She had a name, more than Madame De Pompadour. Her name was Reinette, and it wasn't her fault that the Doctor had fallen for her.

And, if Rose was truthful with herself, that was also a reason for going to the laundry room. She had thought that they were something, her and the Doctor. She thought that she meant more than merely a companion, but she was wrong. She felt rejected, and she didn't know anyone in the universe who liked feeling rejected.

Next to her, the Doctor was quiet. He felt guilty, Rose thought. He wanted to bring her back with him and show her the stars. Rose doubted she said no—who would say no? Which meant that the Doctor hadn't made it back in time, that she had died. For a moment, Rose felt sorry for her, unable to experience how vastly wonderful and fantastic all of time and space could be. She had lived her life waiting for the Doctor, and Rose hoped there was more to Reinette's life than that, in the end. She hoped she was able to appreciate life, enjoy herself as one of the most powerful women in France. Rose wanted to be one of those girls who didn't feel jealous, especially when that jealousy was unwarranted. She wished that she could commiserate with the Doctor, assure him that yes, if only Reinette could see the sunset on Isis 23, that Mozart would have _adored _Reinette, same as Shakespeare and Proust. She knew she could, most likely, do those things, but it would break her heart to do them and she wasn't sure how convincing she would be. She would try, it was the very least she could do for someone she loved.

The Doctor fiddled with controls on the console, assuring both her and Mickey that he was okay, and Rose wanted to place her hand on his arm, force him to look at her and admit that he wasn't. She wanted him to hurt as much as her, wanted him to know what if felt like to lose something before it had the chance to really, truly begin, as she had. She wanted him to mourn Reinette, to feel the grief wash over him. She knew that he has experienced more than his fair share of grief with the loss of his planet, yet somehow the death of Reinette was different, more intimate. She wanted him to acknowledge the thing that he had not yet admitted, that he had fallen in love with a French courtesan and lost her. She knew she wouldn't triumph in this, that she would want to make his pain go away more than she wanted to witness it. She was not cruel, she was only hurt, and she needed to get away from the Doctor before she shattered their fragile friendship.

Mickey tugged on her hand, muttering something about Rose promising him a tour. With a last look at the Doctor, she let Mickey lead her down the hall, intending to show him his room and then go to the laundry room to think.

As they walked through the TARDIS, Mickey chattered away, commenting glibly about the size and enormity of the TARDIS, wondering just how many rooms there were. Rose told him of the pool, the library, and the wardrobe, how the kitchen always seemed to have her favorite foods. They reached a door that had Mickey's name engraved on a brass plate, three doors down from Rose's door.

"Wait," Mickey said, "when did the Doctor have time to pick out my bedroom, and why didn't he tell me before?"

Rose sighed, just a little impatiently. She knew she shouldn't get mad at him, she was the same way when she first came aboard the TARDIS. "He didn't. The TARDIS did."

"But it's just a police box," Mickey replied, not comprehending.

"She is _not _just a police box," Rose replied hotly. "She's alive, you know. She's not just this _thing _that lets the Doctor get around, like a car or something. She takes him where he needs to go, and knows just when I want chocolate or an entire box of biscuits. So be nice to her, or you'll find your room in the basement."

Mickey put his hands in front of him as a sign of surrender. Smart man that he was, he knew better than when to get on Rose Tyler's nerves. "Calm down, Rose. I promise, no jokes at the TARDIS's expense."

Rose smiled tightly. "I know. Sorry, Mickey, I'm just on edge still from almost dying."

Mickey shrugged in reply. He knew it wasn't that, that Rose had barely blinked an eye while he was squirming and carrying on while those things attempted to fillet them. The Doctor was being a prat, and Mickey hoped, for both his and Rose's sake, that she and the Doctor made up quickly.

"So, are you going to open the door?" Rose asked him, trying to change the subject.

Mickey did so, wondering if he was about to walk into a jail cell or the tricked out room of his dreams.

As he looked around, he made a promise never again to make fun of the TARDIS. It gave him a huge room, complete with a state-of-the-art TV, gaming system, an entire self's worth of games, dozens of DVDs, and his own mini fridge. There was a bed in the corner, a queen size one at that, and one of those gaming chairs he always wanted but never could afford. He made a bee line to the fridge, opening it up and discovering his favorite beer in there.

"Rose, come look! Oh, this is brilliant. Want a pint?"

Rose laughed, sending off her own mental thanks to the TARDIS for keeping Mickey happy and occupied. "No, thanks. You have fun playing Call of Duty. I'm going to go to bed, I think. Long day."

Mickey shrugged. "Suit yourself. Seems to me the best thing to do after a day like today is drink a beer and forget about it."

Rose waived him off, promising that she would, at some point. She was just tired, is all, and wanted to get some sleep before their next adventure. She felt slightly bad for lying to him, but it wasn't as if he needed to know everything. Besides, he would be too engrossed in the riches of his new room to notice her. If anything, he would complain that her moping was bringing him down. She made her way to the laundry room, hoping simultaneously that it wasn't that far of a walk, yet so far that both Mickey and the Doctor wouldn't accidentally find her. The TARDIS took pity on her, making the laundry room just two hallways and a turn to the right. Once she entered, she heard the click of the lock and felt secure in the knowledge that she could be alone for as long as she wanted.

The whole space of the room felt like the dry heat of the dryer, the pleasant feeling of putting on jeans that had just been in there. It felt like comfort, like commiseration. Her music player was there, even though she had the distinct memory of leaving it on her bedside table. Rose hopped onto the dryer, leaning back so that her head touched the wall. She closed her eyes, and let herself process her pain, anger, and sadness over what had happened that day.

What she hated the most was that he had warned her, when she met Sarah Jane. He told her, essentially, that he would eventually leave her, that he would drop her off one day once he was tired of her. She knew this in the back of her mind all along, that her life with the Doctor was like the best summer fling she would ever have. It was not meant to last, and she would have to go back to her life someday. Yet after Sarah Jane, she wanted to hope that maybe she was different, that she would be the one who would stay. There seemed to be _more _between them, there were the looks and hand-holding and the hugs. There was the way that they seemed in sync, even when they should have been stumbling and fumbling. There were the conversations that lasted until she fell asleep, the way that always seemed one step away from falling off the precipice. She dreamed of those moments, the heated looks that she was certain would lead to even hotter kisses. She was as certain of these things as she was certain of the sun and the stars.

But, like finding out that the universe was infinitely large and that time did not exist in a linear fashion, she and the Doctor were not this impending romance, they were just friends. She had taken it for granted, had believed that they were something truly _epic, _if only one of them would just make move already, when in actuality they were just as the Doctor described that night. He would leave her one day, and she would be left picking up the pieces. The world was not as she had thought, and it hurt.

It hurt too much. She swallowed, so close to tears that she felt her throat close up and the taste of salt on her tongue. She was about to have a good, proper cry and she was relieved to know it. She could cry it all out, go to sleep and wake up in the morning ready to deal with this new revelation.

She was tired of her thoughts, all loud and obnoxious. Her mind relived all the moments that she had previously cherished, and showed her how the Doctor was only being her friend, not someone interested in her. She didn't want to think, not anymore, and she reached for her music player. Putting her ear buds in, she scrolled through, finding the first album that appealed to her. She hit play on Adele's _21_, an album that wouldn't be out for another six years, but the Doctor insisted that she have it on her music player, because in his words, "Adele is brilliant, Rose. This album will change your life."

She let out a bark of laughter. Even his music suggestions screamed that he wasn't interested in her that way. The bark of laughter became hysterical giggling, this idea that at every turn he was telling her to let go of this stupid crush of hers. His actions, her obliviousness, the colossal stupidity of it all hurt so much that she had to laugh, teetering the edge between laughing and crying before the giggles turned into sobs. She wished she were home so that her mum would make her a cup of tea and let her cry it out, then listen while Rose talked, before assuring Rose that the Doctor was an idiot who didn't deserve her brilliant, gorgeous daughter.

She was half-resolved to get up and tell the Doctor that she wanted, needed, to have a trip home. Maybe she would lie and say that she wanted to visit her friends, stop in and assure them she was okay, or maybe she would tell him the truth, and the reason that she wanted to go home was because he had broken her heart and all she wanted to do was sit on her mum's couch and be told that it was his loss. Her sobs subsided, giving away to occasional chokes and sniffles as she thought about what she would say to the Doctor to make him take her home for a bit, just enough so she could get over him and go back to world saving and time traveling.

Suddenly, there were knocks on the door, three rapid knocks that alerted her that it wasn't Mickey. Mickey banged on doors, never knocked. He would also be shouting right now, always impatient. This was the Doctor, probably bored and wanting her to entertain him. That was all she was, a silly human girl who amused him. She wasn't in the mood to be entertaining, and she ignored him. He would get the hint, eventually. She turned up "Set Fire to the Rain," willing him to leave her alone.

The knocks became more persistent, forcing her to acknowledge them. She turned down the music slightly, not bothering to pause it.

"Go away," she called out.

"Can't," the Doctor replied. "I have laundry to do."

Rose made a sound of frustration, yanking out the ear buds. "Bullshit. You never do laundry. Just sonic it, or whatever. Find another suit, another laundry room. I don't care, just leave me alone," the last sentence came out louder and shriller than she intended, and she was fighting back tears again. She was so angry at him, so furious that he wouldn't leave her in peace, that she was close to saying all the hurtful things she thought about in the console room.

She heard a buzzing sound and the clicking of the lock. She put the ear buds back in and turned up the volume, determined to ignore him if he insisted on choosing this moment of all moments to do his own damn laundry. She even closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him. Tomorrow, when she wasn't in danger of going into hysterics, she would tell him, calmly, that she needed some time at home.

She felt his hand on her arm, an action so unexpected that she flinched, opening her eyes, flicking the ear buds out of her ears. She didn't see the mania that she expected, the stubborn denial to acknowledge the sadness of losing Reinette. She didn't see moroseness, or an expectation for her to make it all better. She saw instead an intense concern, a single-minded focus on her, as if she were the most important thing in the universe, so much that she was unsure of quite what to do, how to act, how to think. She probably looked like an idiot, gaping at him and she was sure that in a moment he would laugh at her for being a stupid ape.

"I lied," he said quietly. "I don't have laundry to do."

The anger she thought had been extinguished with that look in his eyes roared back to life. She wasn't in the mood for jokes right now, for light hearted remarks that attempted to erase the damage of the day. "No shit. So what are you doing here?" she demanded.

He looked so sad, she realized. He probably came here so that she would console him, tell him that it was such a damn shame that Reinette wasn't here, that she was the prettiest, cleverest, wittiest creature to ever walk the Earth. His hand, still on her arm, tightened just a little bit.

"I shouldn't be alone right now," he replied, still as quiet as before. "I need you."

She wanted to desperately to believe his words, to think that he did, indeed, need her, fundamentally. She wanted to believe that he needed her not just as a distraction, but as a part of himself, that without her he felt as if the colors of the world had been washed away. She wanted to go to him, to envelope him in her arms and whisper to him all the promises she never had the bravery to say aloud.

"Doctor," she began, her voice changing in timbre as she fought back tears. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry that Reinette is gone and you l-loved her, but I'm sorry, I can't do this. I want to, and I need you to know how sorry I am, but I can't be around you without hurting too much."

She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she would have waited longer on that cursed ship, if it meant he would come back to her, but the words wouldn't come. The best she could do was tell him how sorry she was, and tell him that she wasn't going to martyr herself just to be second place.

"What?" the Doctor replied, his voice hoarse.

Tears started to fall, and she tried to keep her voice under control. "You loved her, I get it. She was lovely, and I only knew her for five minutes. I bet she was extraordinary, and I don't blame you for falling for her. But I can't hold your hand and pretend that my heart isn't breaking as you cry over another girl. Just...please, leave. I'll be fine, I promise. But I can't work on being fine if I'm too busy taking care of you."

"Rose," he said, his voice urgent and panicked. His hands traveled to her face, wiping away the tears. "Rose, you don't understand."

She sighed, wishing that he would just go away. "Doc-"

He kissed her suddenly, swallowing the last syllable. He didn't let her finish, couldn't let her finish. He knew he should go, find another room, any other room, and respect her wishes, but this was too important. She didn't understand, he had to make her understand.

She wasn't kissing him back.

She wanted to, desperately, but she wouldn't indulge in a fantasy, making the mistake thinking that it was real. He really wanted to kiss Reinette, she knew. She was a pale second to a French courtesan. Just as she made an attempt to break away, he pulled back, breathing heavily and resting his forehead against hers.

"Rose, it was you. It has only ever been you."

It was her turn to not understand. She was so sure that it had been Reinette, that she was just a place holder, his friend. She thought she was mistaken, that it was all in her head, yet his actions, and his words, seemed to suggest otherwise.

"I think about you all the time, even when I don't mean to. You just...pop up when I'm making lunch or reading a book and I want to talk to you, tell you everything. The few moments I was in France, all I could think of was how much I wanted, needed it to be with you. I don't want to walk to slow path if it isn't with you," he rushed out the words, worried that if she would walk away from him before he finished, that she would tell him that she didn't feel that way, that he was the greatest fool in the universe. His hearts hammered in his chest, providing a bass line to the urgency of the situation.

"Doctor," Rose whispered, sliding her hands up his chest. "I don't understand, you seemed so happy with her, and I thought you and I weren't-"

"No!" he said quickly, interrupting her. "Reinette—she was lovely, but she's not you. I would talk to her and wonder how you would respond, if you would laugh, if you would like the banana daiquiris. I wondered how you would look in a corset, how gorgeous pink silk would be in contrast with your skin," he growled the last part, wanting to go back to kissing her.

She kissed him, not needing to say anything more, at least not now. She was glad she had been so completely wrong, even if it meant that her mascara was running and she probably looked like a fright. Her hands were now in his gorgeous hair, and she found when she tugged on it a little bit, he would moan. He deepened the kiss, his fingers tracing patterns on her ribcage, tracing the underside of her bra. She scooted forward on the dryer, her legs wrapping around his waist.

He broke the kiss again, his lips moving to her neck to find the spot behind her ear that made her melt and feel like starlight. Rose moved her hands to his shirt, tugging it out of his trousers in order to feel the skin of his torso. Scrapping her nails on his stomach, he groaned into her neck.

"Rose," he moaned. She repeated the action. "God, you minx, we're not going to make it out of this laundry room if you keep doing that."

She giggled, enjoying the effect she had on the Doctor, the power making her giddy. "And what if I don't want to leave this room? It happens to be my favorite, you know."

He lifted his head up, cocking his eyebrow at her. "And what about my bedroom?"

She smiled at him, and he was close to reconsidering his plan to move their activities. She pushed him gently forward, hopping down from the dryer and walking out of the room. Looking over her shoulder at him, she gave him her most seductive smile.

"I'm sure I could be persuaded to change my mind."

Hours later, her limbs tingling and her skin sticky with sweat, she admitted to the equally tingling and sweaty Time Lord next to her that the laundry room and his bedroom were definitely tied for first place.


End file.
